


first impressions

by Hueyhuey



Series: big bad bright fireworks [1]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Blind Character, Gunshot Wounds, Major Character Injury, Medical Inaccuracies, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Team Red
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2020-10-06 20:11:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20512814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hueyhuey/pseuds/Hueyhuey
Summary: Peter meets that one guy with the horns from Manhattan. They say first impressions are everything, right?





	first impressions

**Author's Note:**

> There is so much medical handwaving in this but my search history is so screwed up already I'm sorry the hand waving is not going to go away.

Peter knows that hand-to-hand isn’t his strength, but he thinks he’s doing a pretty good job of holding his own considering it’s three to one against him. He doesn’t even know which gang the mobsters he’s currently fighting hail from, much less how the hell they’ve managed to lure him to Hell’s Kitchen of all places.

He’s incapacitated the one with the biceps by the time his right web-slinger malfunctions. He falters, cursing the new web fluid formula, which gives Fugly Number Two time to clock him on the side of the head. 

Peter goes down hard, all the breath shoved out of his lungs as Fugly Number Two crushes his way onto his abused ribs to lay into his face. He’s just caught his breath and is about to throw Fugly into the air when something knocks into the side of the thug’s face hard enough to knock a couple of teeth out. Peter shoves Fugly off, jerking his head up in the direction of the projectile just in time to see a real, actual ninja slam into the last perp, knocking him into the wall of the alley and pinning him there. 

This new contender is sporting a getup comprised entirely of black, save the thick, blood-stained ropes knotted around his wrists and knuckles. He wears a mask that covers the top half of his face and Peter can see his mouth is twisted into a snarl as he cracks his opponent’s head into the wall again and again. 

The Spidey Sense makes itself known with a shock as Peter sees Biceps reach underneath his prone form, extracting a gun, and take aim. The only thing he manages to get out before his web dispatches the gun is “Hey, man!”

The man had already noticed, but he’s too late to avoid the bullet, which finds its home in his right thigh. To his credit, his only reaction is a small grunt and he twists to finish off the asshole attached to the wall while Peter rushes to further incapacitate Biceps. 

When Peter turns to assess the damage, the man has slid down the wall and is pressing his rope-wrapped hand against the wound in his leg. Peter crouches next to him, producing a wad of web and adding it to the hole in an attempt to staunch the nauseating flow of blood. The man grimaces at the sensation and his brow under the mask shifts: furrowing his eyebrows, maybe?

“Shit, dude, I’m so sorry. Should have caught the guy before he got the damn gun out,” Peter babbles. The web is already soaked through with dark blood. Peter presses harder and the man groans.

“In my left pocket. Claire,” he grits out. Peter shifts to reach the guy’s left side and he extracts an ancient, beat-up flip phone from a discreetly located pocket in the guy’s pants. Peter opens it, careful not to relieve the pressure as he switches hands again to find Claire’s contact--one of only four in total--and hits call.

The phone rings and rings and what little Peter can see of the man is definitely paling. He considers the possibility of a tourniquet but the wound is pretty far up the man’s leg and besides, Peter doesn’t trust his strength not to immediately condemn the poor guy to an amputation. 

The woman’s--Clara’s? Claire’s--voice picks up on the other end of the line: “Hey, it’s Claire. I’m probably working or otherwise occupied. Leave a message and I’ll--” 

The man grabs the phone from Peter before the greeting finishes and hangs up, crying out as he jostles his leg. 

Peter huffs, producing more webbing and tossing the ruined bandage aside as the man blanches.

“Dude, you’re bleeding a lot. Like, a scary amount. You probably nicked an artery or something and I really don’t want to have to deal with a dead guy tonight. You need a hospital or, like, a doctor at least” Peter says. The man seems to glare at him, though Peter can’t see his eyes through the mask. “Seriously, I’m not about to leave you here to die.”

“N’hospitals,” the man slurs. “M’call Fog...” With that, he hits a button on his phone, which does nothing, draws the speaker up to his ear, and promptly slumps further against the wall, having lost his battle to stay conscious.

“Shit. Hey man. Dude, wake up,” Peter pleads. He adjusts his grip on the makeshift bandage to check the guy’s pulse; it’s shallow and fast, tachycardic and growing more uneven with every beat. Peter tries again, gently shaking the guy’s shoulder, “Come on, buddy. You helped me out once. Think you can do it again? Wake up for me?”

Peter’s shaking is rewarded with a sickening head loll. He panics, pulling out his phone and scrolling through his contacts. Tony’s in California for a conference. The severity of the wound is beyond Aunt May’s home first-aid kit’s capabilities, and moving the guy alone might accelerate the bleeding. Who’s in Hell’s Kitchen and has an expansive enough knowledge base and a first-aid kit to rival Emergency Services?

His eyes settle on Wade’s Hello Kitty profile picture. Last Peter had heard, Deadpool was in Hell’s Kitchen this week working his way through a rash of rapists. He hits call.

Wade picks up on the second ring, worry coloring his groggy “What’s going on, Spidey?”

“I’m in Hell’s Kitchen with this guy. Mobster got him with some sort of handgun, bleeding really bad and he just passed out. Please tell me you're nearby,” Peter rattles off.

“Where in the Kitchen?”

“Uhh. Alley along 9th. Near 48th?” Peter hopes that’s a close enough estimate. He’s not terribly familiar with this area of Manhattan.

“Be there in five. Hang on. Stay on the line, you hear me?” Wade commands.

“Yeah, yeah I do. Oh fuck Wade, what if this guy dies? I didn’t stop the one who shot him fast enough and it’ll be my fault and I don’t even know who he is--”

“Peter, listen to me. Deep breaths. Not the time,” Wade reminds him. Peter can hear something clatter and the sounds of shoes hitting pavement on Wade’s end. He glances at the unconscious man, who is whiter than Peter could have thought possible. He doubles down on his efforts to apply pressure and earns a pained moan from the man. It’s better than nothing.

Wade skids into the alley a couple of minutes later, sporting sweatpants and a bright hoodie. He has a backpack slung over his shoulder and Peter doesn’t have time to register the unfamiliarity that arises every time he sees Wade in civilian clothes. He’s too busy trying to wrap the unconscious man’s leg in as much webbing as possible, but every time he gets started the bandage is already soaked.

“Wow, Pete, you weren’t kidding,” Wade remarks as he appraises the pair on the ground. “Quit it with the web and help me pick him up. Gotta move somewhere I can work on him.”

Peter holds the guy’s torso upright as Wade situates his arms, and as they stand up in unison he releases a strangled cry and lashes out at Wade. Wade simply adjusts his injured leg so it’s not pinned into the crook of his elbow and starts in the direction of what Peter assumes is a safe house. 

When they arrive at an abandoned tenement, Wade instructs Peter to get the first-aid kit from under the sink. He obliges as Wade lays the guy down on the mattress in the corner of the room, disregarding the blood that begins to seep in and stain. Wade grunts out an apology as he cuts the pant leg off to expose the wound.

The man is starting to come back to awareness, and he gasps as Wade starts to sanitize the offending flesh. Peter thinks the bleeding has slowed, but it may only be the change of scenery. He paces as Wade sets to work, and the guy grumbles out, “Deadpool? The hell…”

Wade hums in acknowledgment. “Hey Red, Spidey called me. What happened to your nurse friend? My stitches ain’t gonna be nearly as pretty as hers are.” This remark earns a frown from the guy, Peter thinks Wade called him Red.

“Dunno. Didn’t uh, didn’t pick up. Work probably,” Red speculates. Peter pauses in his pacing to stare incredulously at Wade, whose back is turned and whose attention is wholly devoted to the Red guy’s leg.

“You two know each other?” Peter asks.

“This ain’t the first bullet I’ve dug out of this asshole, Spidey. One of the bloodiest, I’d bet,” Wade supplies as he ties something off inside the guy’s--Red’s, Peter thinks--thigh. 

“Fuck off, Wade. You’re making it sound like this is a weekly thing. You’re gonna scare the kid,” Red warns. Peter freezes up, instinctively tensing for a fight.

“I’m not a kid. What makes you think that?” he demands. He hates how his tone falters on the ‘that’. Dead giveaway if Peter’s ever heard one, but he’s already made his bed.

“You really have to ask? Your voice sounds like Pikachu’s younger cousin and your adrenaline’s so high it’s pulling your heart out of your chest,” Red says. He sucks in a breath as Wade tugs on a stitch forcefully.

“Play nice, Deviled Eggs, or I might just have to stick this needle somewhere-”

“You’re that Daredevil guy! Oh my god!” Peter interjects. How had he not connected the dots before now? Maybe it’s because last Peter had checked, Daredevil was running around his domain in a distinctive horned number which bore minimal resemblance to the black outfit currently gracing the man in front of him. “Your new outfit’s cool. Very subtle.”

Daredevil looks like he wishes he hadn’t woken up. He pulls his shoulders up to his ears and sinks deeper into the mattress, putting forth his best effort to become one with the bloodstain. Wade knocks him on the uninjured knee.

“Hear that? Spidey likes your gimmick. First time for everything, buddy,” Wade says with a flourish as he ties off one final stitch. “If you tear those stitches getting home I’ll pull your imaginary horns out of your ass. That shit there is art. Plus, I’m not a damn MD and I will murder you if you die from internal bleeding.”

Peter peers over Wade’s shoulder at the bullet wound. His stitches are indeed impressive. They look a little like the spiky caterpillars he’d seen in his bio textbook earlier that month. A hysterical giggle escapes his throat at that thought, and Wade turns to him, concern evident on his face.

“All right, I’m sending you home, kid. I’ve sent Double D packing with worse than this and it’s the one night of the week when I get enough sleep that I don’t actively try to kill myself the next day.”

Peter balks at being dismissed with such disregard. Wade has let him crash at his various houses throughout the city more times than he can count. He’s been assuming that he’d be allowed to pull up a spot on the floor. Maybe Wade doesn’t want Daredevil to think that he can stay. Regardless, Peter’s up in arms about it.

“I’m not leaving until I know he’s not gonna just go find a dumpster to bleed out in,” he says. He plants his feet more firmly into the linoleum.

Daredevil sits up, using Wade’s broad shoulder for support and obviously suppressing a groan.

“I’ll be fine. Like Wade said, I’ve walked away with much worse than this.” He uses the shoulder as leverage to stand up, gingerly testing the integrity of the leg. He feels at the cuff of his impromptu half-shorts and turns to address Wade. “Thanks for fucking up my pants, douchebag. I can’t afford a new pair every week.”

“You’re the one who caught metal so far up your leg. Can’t roll a pant leg up over thunder thighs like that.” 

“I do not have thunder thighs!”

“Really? That ass would beg to differ.”

“Objection!”

“On what grounds? Not like you can-”

Daredevil slams his fist into Wade’s jaw so hard that Peter hears the crack from where he’s backed against the wall. Wade yells and goes to tackle him before remembering the context of the situation. He gripes at Daredevil through his broken jaw and suddenly Peter feels like he’s intruding on a very intimate exchange. He takes the opportunity to slide closer to the door.

“Sorry to interrupt this absolutely--” Peter searches for the right word, “--riveting interaction, but I think I’m gonna head home. You stay safe, Daredevil. Wade, I owe you a succulent. Sorry for waking you up so late.”

Peter turns and crosses the threshold of the sparse apartment before either of them can say--or growl, in Wade’s case--anything else. The last thing he hears before he swings his way out of a broken window is Wade loudly mourning his imminent acquisition of yet another succulent.

With only one web-slinger, Peter’s commute home is twice as long and three times more tiring on his left hand. He tumbles onto his fire escape, inattentive to the amount of noise he makes. He collapses into bed without taking his suit off, exhaustion making itself known in every bone in his body. His ribs protest the loss of adrenaline and the change in position, and Peter thinks of Daredevil and his ability to hear his heart pounding in his chest. 

He feels a wave of indignance at Wade for not introducing the two of them sooner; Daredevil seems like a funny guy, and certainly someone Peter doesn’t want fighting against him. He resolves to venture into Hell’s Kitchen more. If the guy trusts Deadpool more than a hospital, he’s someone to have on Peter’s side, right?

Wow, he thinks before he drifts off. What the hell is a moral compass in a world where Deadpool is preferable to professional medical assistance?


End file.
